


O, I Can't Decide

by Coffin Liqueur (HP_Lovecats)



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-20 23:55:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21065318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HP_Lovecats/pseuds/Coffin%20Liqueur
Summary: Irresistible force, meet (supposedly) unflirtable object.





	O, I Can't Decide

_"I came from the web, like a horny spider."_  
\- Bo Burnham 

So!

...Ah-hem.

Angel wanted to get off and get trashed, ‘cause of course he did. Way better use of his time than cleanin’ up for publicity shit - ehhhhh, you’d think they’d be setting him up to be the centerpiece of the show for something like this, anyway, instead of asking ‘im to join them as temporary janitor. Considering being the centerpiece of the show was more his thing, in particular. He didn’t “do” regular responsibilities. Especially not like Charlie and Vaggie did. That’s why they were the program-runners!

So here he was, proudly provin’ that he still had a lot to learn (or whatever he’d tell ‘em if they walked in). He’d put a featherduster over in the corner (not before playin’ saucy French maid with it - dusted the air jauntily in front of a mirror, tossed the thing back to rest the handle on his shoulder, poked his butt out, and blew his reflection a kiss with an all-too-entertained-with-himself wink and a mwah!), along with a couple of armfuls of books. If anyone were to ask, he couldn’t read, and therefore didn’t know what those things were for. Yes, it mattered that that was one hell of an obvious lie; that’s part of why it’d be funny. You know! To tell Charlie and Vaggie he couldn’t read - even though, one, he’d made a shitload a’ comments on a contract he didn’t want to read. Point there being, you know - didn’t want to.

Anyway, here he is, in some normal-ass lounge, getting ready to get super-off and super-high, when all of a sudden, the earth shakes.

You’d think that’d be normal, right? It’s the center of the earth, and all!

But anyway, his lube spills, and his liquor spills, and he dives on the floor, gasping about how “GOD… NO…!!!” his luck is. Hell, fuck, he feels around on the floor to catch spots where the rug feels damp enough that he still tries to catch liquor in a lube bottle, or oil in a liquor flask.

And then the door opens right behind him, and he seizes.

He ain’t got no sense of shame, nah - he doesn’t care if Charlie or Vaggie catches him like this. What are either of them gonna do - hit him?

But he seizes just by reflex. ‘Cause, you know… not only Dear Ol’ Dad, but that bein’ kinda the way it is, you know? You get caught with your butt up in the air and people act like you’re a slut.

(“...’N I mean, I am,” Angel would say.)

Buuuuuut, nah. It’s Alastor’s voice that comes in.

Angel seizes initially just because he knows how Alastor will not respond. Not how he will. He knows Alastor won’t joke about seeing his butt in the air.

But he also hears a step scraping back across the carpet, as Alastor… pauses or something? While at the same time saying “Angel! ...Charlie has told me she needs you! Unless you’re busy…?”

And that’s where this happened. This one instance of a routine.

Angel smirked. Pursed his lips. Raised his rump in the air. Brought his knees together, ‘cause you gotta get those points for style, baby. His lip quirked away from his fang. “Yeah, uhh, don’t mind me,” he said. Rocked a little bit a’ weight side-to-side-to-side-to-side, balanced between each knee and the toe of its respective boot. “I walk in and there’s, uhh, up-hoe all over the rug.”

Turned a hand with a wrist rotation in the air, palm up. Closed his fingers around nothing as he closed the circle, and lolled his head aside to rest against his knuckles. All Juliet-like - ‘cept that was her palm, right?

He eyed for a reaction. Quick darts of his eyes up and down and up. Sure wasn’t expecting one, but he got one.

Somethin’ about the line of Alastor’s eyelids flattened in their slipping half-down. He grinned good and deep on the inside, all right.

“‘“Up-hoe,’” Alastor said. All but literally through the teeth in that shit-eatin’ grin.

Angel boosted his eyebrows. Two slick and clean shaped little arches. Let ‘is own little smirk slip, stuck the tip of the finger of his glove into his mouth for a split second - gave it a quick couple of idly-contemplative sucks and pulled it away with a kissy little snap, and a turn off his wrist out ‘n aside, eyes rolling up into a corner. “Yeah! Uphoe. U… P, uh - H…” His legs kicked in the air behind him. Once, twice… Picked up a rhythm, fuck it. “...A, O, U, E, H…?”

His voice lightened and softened and, fuck, cracked as he spelled that out. Sounded almost ingenue, or something - heh; might as well a’ been intentional. Lookin’ as how it was either that or straight-up say or whatever.

He could hear Alastor breathe in through that cloud a’ radio static just before he spoke. Turned his eyes right back to him. Wide, like he was naught but a humble passerby. Kicked faster, stuck his finger in his mouth again. “Aaaaall right!” the guy said - puffed his scrawny chest out, raised a claw. “Pray tell - ...What is ‘up-hoe’.”

Angel’s grin goddamn melted back on. “Not a whole lot, chief,” he said - four arms with their elbows to the ground pointing their index fingers in the air and then gunnin’ themselves the radio bastard’s way. “What’s up with you?”

And the guy turned his chin up his air, and started to high-step and prance on around him like the weird fuckin’ guy-shaped deer he was, all but braying that kinda rise of noise somebody makes when they’re about to sneeze before chuckling on broken up by coughs of a nonexistent speaker. Giving noncommittal “claps” of his fingertips to the heel of his opposite palm. You know, golfclapping. Face not changing as he kept his eyes on Angel, down in their corners.

He sat down all stupid-jaunty. Angel looked down at that sofa - blank-faced, asking himself if it was one he had cum all over. He couldn’t tell. His eyes flicked up to Alastor with a certain not-quite defiance.

“Angel,” Alastor said. He shook his head multiple times. Incanted “Angel, Angel, Angel…!”

And Angel said “what”.

All nice and plain.

By his standards, anyway. ‘Cause he lay back on that sofa. Kicked one leg and two arms over another leg.

And Alastor lay low and sneered.

In response, Angel grinned.

Alastor didn’t even say another word.

Had he been called on to make sure Angel was on task? He didn’t even fucking know.

...One thing Angel did assume was on… some kinda task, though.

He had gone back on the floor. To tease - scrub over-the-top all… Cinderella-like!

And on his way out, Alastor had smacked him on the ass.

All nice and sharp with his cane.

Angel had actually started. Shuddered. And caught Alastor looking at him, downward, with a wink, and that shit-eating smile.

And Angel had smiled, too.

Wish I could just say I could play at that game, too, huh…?

Two sure can.

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings; I wrote the majority of this while blasted.
> 
> Just like Angel would want, I suppose.


End file.
